


my love will be yours soon

by theviolonist



Category: The Hour
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what she resents him the most for, after reflexion: that he doesn't even try to hide it better, that he won't bend to the time-honored ritual of being an unfaithful bastard who at least spends a respectable amount of time making sure his wife won't find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my love will be yours soon

i. 

She doesn't _look_ for them. She doesn't have to.

This is what she resents him the most for, after reflexion: that he doesn't even try to hide it better, that he won't bend to the time-honored ritual of being an unfaithful bastard who at least spends a respectable amount of time making sure his wife won't find out. 

Bel Rowley she can forgive him for: she's a strong woman and a blonde with soft eyes to boot, every man's kryptonite for an affair. Were she a man, Marnie might have fallen for her too, just for the hell of it. And it's a one-time thing, she's sure of it - the crease of Hector's shirt where her body was pressed against him, his crumpled eyes, full of someone that isn't her. So Marnie lays the table for him and tells him things he doesn't care about, that she will have to remind him when he asks, irritated, in the morning before he's had his coffee. She's dutiful, not exactly kind but a wife. This is what he wanted, isn't it? 

But it's not a one-time thing. Bel Rowley is lichen, growing ivy, creeps into every corner and seems to believe she's living in a romance novel. _Get a grip_ , Marnie thinks meanly. She resents her for being so careless: a woman who has a chance, a career, and she's going to squander it all on Hector Madden? _He's not worth it_ , Marnie holds just behind her teeth as she threatens her. 

It has the expected effect, which is to say nothing at all; Marnie collects the signs, first with anger and then wearily, lipstick, perfume, notes, the obligatory panoply of guilty glances and silent dinners where Hector's 'secret' hangs heavily over them. 

_Out with it_ , thinks Marnie, for him - for him, again, always. He'll feel better when he won't be a liar but only a cheater. That he can deal with. That he accepted the first time he fucked Bel Rowley and knew he had a wife. 

"Spinach lasagna with goat cheese," she says instead. He doesn't deserve the mercy.

 

ii. 

He doesn't tell her. 

Marnie does the only possible thing there is to do: she takes a breath, grabs a spoon in the cutlery drawer and starts digging her way out of love. It's a miserable ride, it takes time, but she does it, because she's Marnie Madden and despite what people seem to think, she doesn't enjoy suffering.

There's no outward change, she doesn't think: she still gets her groceries, kisses her husband and goes on about her daily business with a smile on her face, but inside there's a furious little Marnie in a tank top, with mud and blood on her hands, and she's going to make it out. Marnie has in this imaginary avatar ten times the faith she has in her Sunday school god. 

"Hello," she says, and "Goodbye," and "Thank you," and "Good afternoon, Miss Rowley," and little Marnie digs and digs, the spoon rattling against the hot crust of her heart, her love falling apart like a too-cooked cake.

It gets easier after that. When little Marnie emerges on the other side of the tunnel, fists the air with triumph before daintily shaking the mud off her clothes, real, big Marnie takes a load of laundry and starts stuffing it in the washing machine, and finds that the lipstick stains don't raise anything more in her than a vague urge to rub soap over them and restore the cloth to its perfect uniformity of color. 

One night Hector comes back home late, reeking of alcohol. Marnie is still up, sitting on the couch with a book. 

He stumbles through the door. "I love you," he croaks out. 

Marnie looks: there's a purple splotch over the artery on his throat, one of his cuffs is missing, his hair is distinctly mussed, someone must have been raking their hands through it. His shoelaces are untied: he just got out of a bed and might trip at any moment, trip and fall and break his neck. 

Marnie waits for the anger. It doesn't come. 

She rises, smoothes her skirt. "There's pie in the fridge," she says. "Pie and ice-cream."


End file.
